


Marching On

by Reyn



Series: Kid Fics [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Christmas, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-07
Updated: 2012-12-07
Packaged: 2017-11-20 12:46:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/585574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reyn/pseuds/Reyn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Sheriff Stilinski had to put a positive spin on how to describe his son, he would definitely say Stiles always keeps him on his toes. But sometimes he just wishes he could give his feet a slight rest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marching On

**Author's Note:**

> Stop me if you've heard this one before. 
> 
> How does an author procrastinate when writing a story?
> 
> They write a different story! :D

When Sheriff Stilinski walked into his house and turned on the lights, his eyebrows squeezed into a confused frown so fast that he actually felt the pull from the muscles in his forehead. Looking around did little to alleviate his baffled state of mind, causing him to turn and walk right back out the door to double check the metal numbers that hung over the porch roof.

Yep. His house address.

Heading back inside, he quietly shut the door behind him and unsnapped the strap that kept his gun tucked safely in its holster.

The living room was immaculate. The unorganized piles of magazines, junk mail, and bills had disappeared from all their resting places. The wood of the coffee table gleamed bright enough to reflect the dark television screen off its surface. The DVDs on either side of the entertainment center had been organized back in to orderly rows. The throw blankets had all been folded and neatly tucked away into their bin in the far corner. The sheriff barely even remembered that his couch was supposed to be green in their absence.

A flash of light from the corner of his eye had him spinning on his heel towards the dark kitchen, where the headlights from the neighbor's car across the street were shining in the window as they parked backwards in their driveway. He didn't even need to turn on the lights to be able to tell how every surface within the kitchen was practically sparkling in the absence of snack and cereal boxes, and leftover dishes. The toaster had even been pushed back in its proper place between the bread box and fridge.

Doing his best to keep calm, the sheriff kept one hand on his gun as he made his way to the staircase, noting bleakly that it was devoid of Stiles' toys. Luckily, his son was staying at Scott's house, but the sheriff wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse at this moment, seeing as how it eliminated many of the less frightening explanations. Had they been robbed by someone with OCD? Just what the hell was going on?

Upon reaching the landing, the sheriff's first order of business was to check Stiles' room. Thankfully, the bedroom looked untouched; a comforting disaster of toys and clothes in the wake of the rest of the house. Letting out a sigh weary enough for his whole body to slump against the bedroom door frame, the sheriff ran a hand over his face. He knew he needed to follow protocol and check the rest of the house to ensure the place was secure, but he preferred to do it with a phone in hand. All the emergency numbers were on speed dial.

He turned towards his room to retrieve the handset, and very nearly had a heart attack at what he encountered upon turning the light on.

"Je- _sus Christ_!!" His hand flew up away from his gun and stayed lingering in the air. "Stiles?!"

The small, eight year old boy blinked awake, immediately uncurling from his position in the middle of the large bed as he recognized his father's voice.

"Dad!" he happily cried, launching himself into the sheriff's arms, not letting go of the phone he had fallen asleep with.

"Stiles!" the sheriff coughed out as the force of his boy's body met with his chest. "What the hell are you doing here?"

Stiles momentarily tightened his grip around his dad's neck before letting go and pulling himself back so they could properly converse. "I cleaned the house! Did you see? Did you see it?? Did it make you happy? I got too sleepy before I could do my bedroom, but downstairs I put everything away just like mom used to, and I got the cleaning stuff down all by myself, and was _super_ safe, and wore gloves so my skin wouldn't burn and fall off, and did you see the kitchen! I made it _sparkle_ just like _mom_!" Stiles paused here so he could let out a proud giggle, pure happiness radiating from his eyes as he covered his mouth.

Ignoring the deep-seated ache in his heart at the mention of his late wife, the sheriff ran the hand that wasn't holding Stiles through his hair as he turned to look around the room and then out the bedroom door, as if he could find the answers he needed somewhere in the vicinity.

"Stiles, what are you doing here? Where is Mrs. Melissa? Where's Scott? What...?" he trailed off as he noticed his son's fidgeting.

"They're at their house," Stiles answered, his eyes firmly on the phone in his hands, his fingers tracing around the keypad.

"Okay, but why aren't you with them at their house?" The sheriff could already tell he was going to need to call on his reserves of patience that really didn't exist at this hour after such a long day at work. "Stiles?"

Brown eyes darted up to meet his for a moment before going back to the phone, his lower lip worrying between his teeth. "I snuck out," Stiles finally admitted quietly.

"You WHA--?" The sheriff immediately set the boy back on the bed and turned away, both hands running over his hair as he paced to the door and back. "You _snuck out?_ I don't believe--! Give me the phone."

Stiles scrambled away from the outstretched hand and dropped into a ball by the headboard, his body curled protectively around the handset. "Why?"

"Why?" the sheriff echoed. "Because I need to call Melissa before she goes to check on you boys and gives herself a panic attack when she sees you're not there, that's why!"

"You're mad."

"Yes!" he yelled. "Yes, I'm mad! Stiles, you can't just--! You're too young to be home on your own! Jesus, I'm going to have to arrest myself for child endangerment!"

Stiles face was scrunched and large tears were swimming in his eyes. "I'm sorry!" he cried, curling tightly in on himself before rapidly crawling back over to his father and shoving the phone in his chest. "Don't be mad! I'm sorry! I was trying to be good! I promise I was trying to be good! Please don't arrest yourself and leave me all alone! I don't want to be alone!"

The last word was dragged out into a sob as Stiles' fears overwhelmed him, leaving him to cry in earnest. And just like that, the sheriff felt his anger drain out of him, leaving him exhausted and devastated all over again.

He carefully took the phone out of Stiles' hands and placed it on the bed, and then picked up his son and held him as close as he could.

"I won't leave you, buddy. I promise I won't leave you," the sheriff breathed into Stiles’ ear, rubbing soothing circles into Stiles' heaving back.

It took him a few moments to realize that Stiles was gasping something out in his wailing and the sheriff turned his head a bit to listen.

"I was trying--! I was t-trying to be goo-! I was try-ying to be -ood! I was--! I was--!"

The sheriff held Stiles tighter still. "Shhh, I know. I know. I didn't mean to scare you like that. We both just need to calm down a bit," he cajoled. "I promise I still love you no matter what."

Those words did the trick, and slowly but surely, Stiles’ cries quieted down, despite the occasional sob that still wracked through his body.

“O-okay,” Stiles acknowledged once he was no longer in hysterics.

“Okay. You ready to talk about it?” the sheriff asked cautiously.

Wordlessly, Stiles nodded his head.

“Okay. I’m going to put you down now, but I promise I’m not going anywhere. I’m going to stay right here and we’re going to talk. I won’t yell, and I’ll think about my words before I say them. Sound good?” The sheriff waited until Stiles loosened his grip before attempting to pull Stiles back, gently placing him on the bed, where the boy remained standing.

For a long while, neither of them said anything.

“How did you get home?” the sheriff finally asked.

“Scott’s bike,” Stiles replied, staring at his father’s knees.

“You took Scott’s bike?” the sheriff did his best to keep his voice level.

Stiles shook his head. “I only borrowed it,” he corrected, chancing a glance up at his dad.

The sheriff’s eyes narrowed. “How did you sneak out without Melissa noticing?”

At this, Stiles went back to staring down while biting on his lip. “Sc--…I made her a cup of decaf coffee.” He squirmed a bit before continuing. “Cause her coffee machine is just like the one at the station. And then I sneaked out while she fell asleep on the couch.”

The sheriff knew every ounce of disbelief shone through on his face. He was well aware his kid could be crafty and devious at times, but this…He dreaded what he had to look forward to once Stiles became a teenager.

“Stiles,” he paused to rub his hand against his forehead. “What possessed you to with the need to come home and _clean_ all of the sudden?”

Stiles opened his mouth and hesitated, as if the question confused him. “I was trying—”

“To be good,” the sheriff completed with a nod. “Yeah, I got that. I’m asking _why_.”

The confusion on Stiles’ face remained for a moment, before it brightened into tentative hope. “Can we go to the mall tomorrow and see Santa?”

Understanding washed over the sheriff so completely that he was unsure if he should laugh or hang his head and cry a little.

“This is about what you want for Christmas.” His accusation came out sounding far more incredulous than he had intended, and he gave in to the urge to run his hands down his face. “Stiles…” He dropped his hands. “We haven’t even bought a tree yet.” It was a weak argument at best, but luckily still passable with small children.

Stiles’ shoulders dropped. “Well…can we buy a tree and _then_ go see Santa?”

“No.”

“Why not?” Stiles cried, his tone clearly conveying his belief that his dad was being completely unreasonable.

The sheriff’s eyebrows shot up. “You tricked Mrs. Melissa. You snuck away from your adult supervision to come home. You forced me to break the law by being home by yourself. And you touched the cleaning supplies without permission, regardless of how safe you were.” Four fingers were lifted as he listed off the completely reasonable reasons they would not be seeing Santa anytime soon.

“But I cleaned!”

The sheriff raised one finger on his other hand.

Stiles looked between the two hands in dismay. “And…and I picked up my toys from the stairs!”

“Technically, that falls under the ‘cleaning’ category.”

“I’ll clean my room tomorrow!” Stiles quickly argued, staring hopefully at the one finger.

Giving it a moment’s thought, the sheriff decided to allow that one and raised a second finger. “You know that still won’t be enough, right?”

“But what else can I do?” Stiles despaired. “I already help with the all the other stuff! The laundry?”

“You owe Mrs. Melissa a big apology.”

Stiles’ face fell in horror. “You want me to do their laundry? But Scott’s dirty clothes smell weird!”

Not that he wasn’t already starting to realize it, but the sheriff could see how he really wasn’t raising his son as right as he had hoped. “No, I want you to stand in front of her when we go over there first thing tomorrow, look her in the eye, and give her a sincere apology after she’s done yelling at you.”

Stiles winced, then frowned. “What’s the definition of sincere?”

“When you really mean something,” the sheriff patiently explained. “Like a promise.”

“So…I have to promise her that I’m _really_ sorry.” Stiles nodded, figuring he could work with that. “If I do that, _then_ can we go see Santa?”

“Nope.” The sheriff moved to pick up both Stiles and the phone, planning on taking the kid back to his own room.

“But I need to tell him what I want for Christmas!”

“Have you tried writing him a letter?” the sheriff asked, turning on the bedroom light and carefully stepping over the array of toys scattered across the floor.

“We did that in school today. But what if my letter gets lost in the mail? And if _all_ the kids are writing him letters, that’s a lot of letters! What if he doesn’t get time to read mine? Or spills hot chocolate on it when it’s still in the envelope?” Stiles clambered out of his dad’s arms onto his bed, tugging down the covers himself. “Plus, he might remember better if he sees me.” He paused, pulling a face. “I guess that means I should prob’ly dress nice, huh?”

Shaking his head, the sheriff took the covers and held them up for Stiles to crawl under. “And what exactly is it that you want that’s so important that you’re willing to voluntarily make a good impression?”

“A Christmas miracle.”

“Oookay, care to be a little more specific?” the sheriff asked, tucking Stiles in and sitting down on the bed.

Pulling his chin out from under the blankets, Stiles shifted around until he was in a more comfortable position while still cocooned in warmth. “In class, Isaac said his big brother said that the bigger present you want, the more good you have to be for Santa to give it to you. Scott said what about Jackson, ‘cause he’s always mean, but he still gets big presents, but I don’t wanna take any chances. But I’m not always super good, but if I can be super good all the time until Christmas, I hope Santa will maybe listen and—”

“What is it?” the sheriff gently interrupted.

“I want to ask Santa if he can bring mom back.”

The air left the sheriff’s lungs like a punch to the gut, made worse by the wide-eyed, innocent stare he was being subjected to. His mouth opened and closed a few times before he remembered to breathe, and even then, it was shaky at best.

“That’s…that would be a pretty big miracle,” he finally allowed, well aware of the tremor in his voice.

Stiles nodded, his face solemn. “I’m afraid I’ll mess up and won’t be good enough,” he admitted quietly.

“Stiles…there’s something I need to tell you about Santa Claus.” The sheriff averted his eyes to Stiles’ shoulder, unable to hold his son’s trusting gaze any longer. “Santa isn’t…he’s not…He’s not as powerful as you probably think he is.”

“What?”

“I mean, yeah, he can do some miracles, and travel around the world in one night,” he went on in a rush, “but his magic isn’t strong enough to do stuff like…like that. And that’s why he makes toys for kids, so they can still be happy even if he can’t…fix all their problems.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Oh,” the sheriff agreed. One eyebrow rose tentatively. “So, are there any toys you might want for Christmas instead?”

Eyes lowered, Stiles shook his head. “No, not really,” he responded before rolling over and facing away from his father.

The sheriff felt horrible. He might as well have told the kid Santa wasn’t real.

“Hey.” He put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder and tried to gently pull him back around. Stiles refused.

“Don’t worry, I’ll still be good.” The resignation in the boy’s voice twisted something sharp in the sheriff’s chest, causing him to pull down the covers so he could lift Stiles up and force him to turn back around. What he saw made him glad he did.

Stiles’ mouth was pulled down into a grossly exaggerated frown that clearly said he was doing his best not to cry.

“Aw, geez, I’m so sorry, buddy. Come here.” The sheriff pulled Stiles forward into his arms, wrapping him into the biggest hug he could muster.

“I miss her so much,” Stiles said rapidly before his voice could waver too much, returning the hug tenfold.

“Me too,” the sheriff replied, fighting back tears of his own. “Me too.”

They remained as they were for a long while, the silence only occasionally interrupted by small sniffles or shuddering, sharp intakes of breath as Stiles continued to do his best not to openly cry for his deceased mother.

The sheriff waited until Stiles’ breaths calmed and his body relaxed in slumber before daring to lighten up his grip and lay the boy back down on the bed. He wanted to stay with Stiles a bit longer, but he knew that the more time he let pass, the more likely Melissa was to call him in complete hysterics.

Picking up the phone from its discarded position at the foot of the bed, the sheriff stood and left the room, turning off the light as he kept the door open a crack.

He wouldn’t take Stiles to the mall to see Santa tomorrow, but maybe lunch and some quality time at the park before heading to the comic store wouldn’t hurt.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: old-sterek-feels


End file.
